Mother Earth
by hyperempathie
Summary: Craig Tucker goes to therapy after a fight. Smoking pot with Kenny McCormick will always be much more comforting.


Craig sat upright in his chair, attempting not to look as stiff as his shoulders felt, as if everyone was looking at him. As if their sticky eyes were pressed to his skin, perpetually looking. Waiting. No, he thought, this was normal. He was the one waiting, in fact, for a man in his mid-forties whose job was to listen to teenagers whine all day to open the door, smile a patronizing smile and invite him to enter.

Therapy was for his own good, his mother said, but Craig Tucker knew better. He knew his dad only wanted more fodder for his routine of complaining to his colleagues about his insufferable family. Craig was just there so Thomas Tucker could say to his co-workers: "We had to send my son to therapy for misbehaving at school so much. And it's going straight out of my goddamn pocket," at which point the pretty girls at work would look at him with sympathy and offer to go out for coffee with him. And Craig would sit in the waiting room, meticulously irrelevant. He could easily have not even gone, he thought, but he'd never waste an opportunity to complain about his home and school life to an unbiased stranger.

Maybe he was no different to all the other whiny kids that walk in and out of the door in front of him on a daily basis. The door creaked open, and a girl a few years younger than him walked out, stared at him for a second and then left. A man's head peeked from behind the door, round cheeks and a snub nose which were made even more obvious when he smiled at Craig.

"Come on in, son."

He flinched at the condescending term of endearment and complied.

Inside the all too warm office, a fan whirred pointlessly. The air felt heavy and stale, as if no air had entered or left in years. Craig Tucker sat on the comically large chair that stood across from a desk where the therapist sat. He smiled again.

"So, what brings you here?"

"I got in a fight at school," he looked at the therapist who stared at him as if to prompt him to elaborate, "I broke a kid's nose for calling me a fag and he punched me in the stomach so hard I threw up on him," this seemed to satisfy him.

"Do you get into fights often?"

"Not really. I just lose my temper sometimes."

For the next 30 minutes, Craig struggled to explain to the man how he absolutely did not instigate the physical confrontation and how calling someone a fag was enough of a reason to get angry. He thought of the fight, the slur still scraped harshly at his mind and the air that was punched out of him still hadn't returned, his stomach felt as if it were on fire. The therapist's phone buzzed to indicate the end of their session. He gave that same condescending smile that made his cheeks look even bigger, "I'll see you next week," he said, "stay out of trouble," though Craig was halfway out the door by the time he said it.

 _Smug, fat asshole makes more money patronizing me than both of my parents make each year,_ he thought, walking out the building and digging through his pockets for a pack of Marlboro reds and a lighter. He bit down on the cigarette in irritation and lit it, shielding the delicate flame from the wind. He inhaled and felt relief spread through his insides starting from his throat. The gentle burning he felt was comforting and he exhaled from his nose as the snow creaked below his shoes.

When he got home, his parents' stared at him in expectation, their expressions saying ' _How was therapy?_ _Did you hate it?_ ' with a hint of egotistical self-pity, as if to say ' _Woe is us, our child is terrible'_. Instead of saying anything, Craig looked at them blankly and walked to his room. He heard his mother sigh as he closed the door. There it was. The messy room that was his reprieve, complete with clothes scattered across the floor and empty coke cans aligned on his desk. He closed the curtains, lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was getting dark outside.

He felt himself getting tired and his eyes felt heavy when the phone on his nightstand vibrated to life. He picked it up, squinting at the light, and answered.

"Craig, it's Kenny," and as Kenny spoke, Craig leaned back and looked up at the ceiling again, "wanna come over and smoke?" he felt the tension in his muscles and shut his eyes tight. Weed would help. Kenny continued, "I have that indica you like. You can stay the night," Kenny knew about Craig and his parents' conflicting temperaments, knew Craig felt uncomfortable being anywhere near them.

"Yeah, I'll come over," he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He'd tell Kenny about therapy when he arrived, eye to eye. Maybe he'd wait for both of them to feel a bit high before he did it, or maybe he'd say it straight away, while they were both sober. He put his shoes and went out into the cold evening.

The wind blew the falling snow towards him, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. His left hand fiddled with his lighter, gliding over the smooth plastic and clutching it tightly. The street lights illuminated the snow that fell slowly and steadily, and he made his way towards the outskirts of town, towards the tracks where trains once travelled and now stood only one old, broken down train that was covered in rust and graffiti. There was Kenny McCormick's home, away from the crowd of the town, standing proud in its old, tiny state. Something felt severe in the way he knocked on the door, and in the way Kenny's head peeked out to look at him before opening the door and urging him inside.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked, though Craig knew he didn't have anything to offer except water and alcohol. He shook his head, and followed Kenny to his room. The pungent smell of cigarette smoke and pot filled his senses. Kenny had already started, he noticed, watching the gangly blond boy sit down on the floor and tap the spot next to him. Craig sat down too.

He took the bong next to his friend without saying a word and pressed the pipe to his lips, digging the lighter out from his pocket and holding it to what was left of the weed Kenny had put in prior. He inhaled deeply and shut his eyes, listening to the bubbling noise before releasing his thumb from the carb and pulling the stem away. He inhaled what left over smoke he could, and waited until a cough forced him to exhale. Through teary eyes he saw Kenny grinning at him before taking the apparatus from his hands and doing the same himself. He felt the tension in his muscles slowly release and his hands began to tingle feverishly. Kenny's cheeks grew red as smoke filled his lungs, making the freckles scattered across his skin stand out even more. He looked back at Craig and smiled again.

"You okay?" Kenny asked, smoke slowly leaving his lips as he spoke, and Craig quickly wiped his stinging eyes before nodding, "sorry about the unintentional hotbox. It's really cold outside."

"Don't worry about it," Craig chewed his lip for a second before continuing, "I went to therapy today."

Kenny stopped moving, smoke coming from his nostrils slowly as he raised both eyebrows and his red, glossy eyes widened. The other boy took this as a sign to elaborate, and he looked at the floor as he spoke.

"My parents made me go because of that fight."

"Dude, you vomiting on that junior was one of the grossest and coolest things that ever happened in the history of that school," though he paused before continuing, "sorry about your parents though. How was it?"

"It was fine," Craig replied without giving it any thought. He tried not to think about the whole ordeal, "pretty boring," and he found himself staring at Kenny's hand which fiddled with his lighter, spinning it between spindly fingers. He imagined that Kenny's fingertips would be warm, though he wasn't sure why. His cheeks and ears grew warm at the thought, or it might have been the weed. Kenny gave the bong back to him.

"It's almost empty, you finish it off," and as he spoke, the blond boy pulled papers from the pocket of his jeans, "I'll roll us a joint."

Craig did as instructed, taking the final hit and trying his best to hold the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible. He exhaled through his nose and put the bong behind him as he looked at his friend. Through the smoke he could see Kenny's shiny eyes, and he wiped again at his own. Kenny offered him another grin, and unconsciously the other smiled back. His hands felt hot and he gently dug his fingers into the carpet. It was just the weed, he thought.

Sleep tugged at his eyelids, making them feel heavy and he yawned. The taller boy turned his attention to him, and passed him the newly rolled joint.

He inhaled and let the smoke fill his lungs before passing it back to Kenny. He tipped his head back and let the subtle feeling of drowning envelop him as he let the smoke leave his mouth slowly. The stuffy air of the room made him feel dizzy and more buzzed than he should have been. It felt familiar and comforting, like returning home after a tiring day, and he felt his muscles relax and his eyelids grow heavy.

"Wanna turn in?" Kenny asked, smoke leaving his mouth as he spoke, smoke all around his form as Craig watched him tentatively with tired eyes.

"Yeah," he paused, shifting his gaze to the floor when their eyes met, "if you want."

Instead, the taller boy moved closer, putting his hand on top of Craig's, whose fingers were still digging into the carpet. His fingertips were warm, like Craig thought, and he looked up, not expecting his friend's face to be so close to his own when he did. He could see every freckle on Kenny's nose and cheeks, his shiny eyes and heavily dilated pupils. It was just the weed, Craig thought.

As if he regained consciousness, Kenny's eyes widened and he moved back, mumbling an apology and smiling nervously. White noise filled Craig's mind, his ears ringing as his mouth felt dry and his heartbeat resonated through his bones. Their faces had never been that close before, he could feel Kenny's breath, all pot smoke and cigarettes, ghost across his lips. He chewed on his bottom lip, feeling pins and needles in the places Kenny's hand touched his.

"I'll get you a blanket," Kenny said, getting up and walking over to his dresser, "do you want a T-shirt or something?"

"Yeah," his voice sounded foreign in his ears, as if he existed outside his body, "thanks."

Digging through his closet, the taller boy tossed a shirt at Craig, who scrambled to catch it. He looked at the thick cotton, fingers fiddling with the collar before he looked up, noticing his friend was setting down pillows and blankets on the floor.

"I'll crash on the floor with you," he said, "if it makes a difference."

"Thanks."

The room was filled with stale smoke, and with the lights off, the street lamps poured yellow through the window. Craig took his jeans and socks off before he shuffled into the makeshift bed and wrapped himself in a blanket, peeking out from under it and looking out the window. Behind him, he could hear Kenny lie down and sigh. He wondered if he was turned towards him, or the other way. Perhaps he was just looking up at the ceiling and letting his thoughts drift. He might have already been asleep, he thought.

Being so close to the ground felt strange, it felt colder down there than it did lying in a normal bed. The world felt heavy above him, pressing down onto his shoulders and making his spine curl. He shivered lightly, and hiccupped when he felt Kenny's fingertips on his bicep.

"Are you cold?" he asked. Craig didn't answer, his throat felt tight and his heartbeat was loud in his ears as he resisted the urge to turn around and look at him. Was it still the weed?

"No."

The pads of Kenny's fingers pressed harder into his skin, urging him to turn around, and he complied as a feverish feeling engulfed him. His ears, eyes, cheeks felt hot. And there Kenny was again, face too close to his own to be considered casual.

"Are you upset about therapy?" he asked, and though it was dark Craig could still easily notice his glossy eyes, dark circles more apparent under the gentle light of the street lamps.

"It sucks," he admitted, hesitating before continuing, "a random person wanting to know all your business," his muscles felt tense as he curled into himself further, "as if he's important at all. It's just a big circlejerk between him and my parents, the only reason I'm going is so my dad can be a big martyr stuck with a terrible child," and Craig felts his words escaping his grasp, running on their own, "so when he and mom get a divorce it's my fucking fault."

"Hey," Kenny stopped him, squeezing his bicep, then releasing the pressure, "relax. Fuck that guy," his hand reached down and found Craig's, their fingers touching but not quite meeting, never threading together, "this doesn't freak you out, does it?" he added hastily, looking for approval on Craig's face.

"You're fine," Craig breathed, though he felt his face grow even hotter, "I mean, if you want-," he interrupted himself and felt his heartbeat grow faster as he fumbled, "I want to."

Guilt made a home in his chest as he noticed how hot he felt, it felt perverse and he quickly averted his gaze from his friend's face. Kenny frowned.

"Craig," he said, his voice was barely above a whisper and he watched as Craig's hazel eyes hesitantly met his, the smoke in the room making them red and irritated, "relax," and he let his pointer finger curl around Craig's, mutely urging him to release the tension in his muscles. He turned around and looked up at the ceiling.

He hated himself, he thought, and his friends. Everyone around him left a putrid stench behind them, all stale cigarettes and bad breath, unwashed hands that linger too long in too many places. He felt like the last trace of humanity was in that room, with Kenny, teary-eyed and smelling of dope, thick smoke that suffocated just enough to feel good. He shut his eyes.

Sleep came like a blanket draped over his face, fuzzy and thick. When he awoke, the sunlight spilling onto his white skin, making the hairs on his arm shiny like golden thread, he felt a headache pooling in the back of his skull, standing gingerly above his neck and threatening to crush it. Kenny was sitting next to him and smoking, and when he noticed the other was awake, he dangled the cigarette in front of his face. Craig took it and bit down on the filter, a chemical taste in his mouth as he inhaled and held it in his lungs as if it was pot. He watched as the smoke pooled from his nose and floated up towards the water-stained ceiling. He took another drag and passed the cigarette back before sitting up, his back cracking like the house settling, spine bending like a twig.

Tired eyes focused on the blond sitting next to him, carelessly smoking. He looked at the cigarette between Kenny's long, bony fingers, watched the cherry ignite with each drag before dulling again and his friend's lips part and bellow out smoke like spitting ghosts into the air. Kenny's eyes caught his and he grinned again, all crooked and careless.

"You slept a lot," he said, voice croaky with sleep, or maybe it was the cigarettes, "didn't wanna wake you up."

"Thanks," Craig replied, his throat getting used to speaking again, his own voice hoarse as well. He cleared his throat. His stomach felt empty, like a hole caving in on itself and he placed a hand on it absentmindedly, though he tried his best not to let Kenny notice, "I'm cold."

His friend offered a look of acknowledgement before passing him the pants he'd left on the floor the night before. Craig became aware of his bare legs, hidden under the blanket that covered him, and he felt his ears grow hot as he grabbed the garment from Kenny, mumbling his thanks as he shuffled into them, skinny legs jabbing nervously.

Kenny put his cigarette out on a metal ashtray that seemed to go wherever he went, old and worn with ash permanently staining the middle. The filter scraped gently against the surface, the flame dying and the last bit of smoke slowly ascending to hug the ceiling. A Viking burial. Then he looked at him, all shiny blue eyes drowning in sunken dark circles, and Craig felt his shoulders tense.

"School's already started," he said, "do you wanna go smoke in the bleachers?" and Craig nodded, though he was quick to light a cigarette as soon as they left the house. The chilly morning air hugged them tightly and the snow creaked gently under their shoes as Craig let his lungs fill with smoke, the cold air making the oncoming lightheaded feeling more intense. He wiped at his eyes and passed the cigarette to Kenny, who paced in front of him.

When they got to the empty track field, Kenny took it upon himself to clean the snow from some of the seats before sitting down cross-legged and pulling out rolling papers. Craig smiled in acknowledgement, though he'd never smoked pot in public before, and even though there was no one there he felt a pang of adrenaline at the thought of being caught. He sat next to his friend and watched as Kenny rolled, steady, spindly fingers jumping along paper, something he himself never learned to do. After finishing, the taller boy passed him one of the blunts, grinning like always.

"You do the honours," he said, and Craig fished the lighter from his half-empty cigarette pack and watched as the tip ignited slowly as he took sharp inhales before taking a deep drag and holding in his chest. His arms grew lax as he passed it to Kenny, and he counted the seconds that he held the smoke before exhaling with a cough. His eyes stung and he watched his friend smoke, the curl of Kenny's lips and the freckles that dusted his cheeks. He felt his own grow hot as he realized he'd been staring, and he quickly looked down at the ground instead. Kenny moved closer to him, "relax," and put his hand on top of his, cold and warm at the same time as he looked up to meet his eyes.

Closer than ever before, their noses were nearly touching and Craig could hear his heartbeat in his ears as Kenny exhaled smoke between his barely parted lips, and Craig inhaled it, pushing guilt and second thoughts aside in favour of the how close their lips were. When he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, he heard Kenny hum in approval and he wondered if it was just the pot. The taller boy's lips moved skilfully while his own fumbled with anxiety and he wondered if Kenny's chest felt as hot as his own did as he found Kenny's bicep and dug the pads of his fingers into the soft fabric of his jacket, anything to get closer. His friend tasted like weed and morning and his other hand moved to touch his cheek, ghosting over his freckles as if Kenny was a galaxy and Craig was an astronaut on his first voyage. He'd spent ages counting those individual freckles and imagining the shapes they formed, in math class when no one was listening, at his house when Kenny was too high to notice, his gaze fixed on the dust of dots across Kenny's cheeks.

Guilt hugged part of him, however, whispering slurs into his conscious, reminding him of the fight, of his father, the foul stench of Catholicism condemning his choices as he dug his fingers into Kenny's jacket and pulled him closer and closer, hoping he could shield him.

"Are you sure?" Kenny breathed against his lips and Craig shook his head, uncertainty was the least of his worries and he tugged at his friend's jacket. Kenny understood and he scooted even closer, wrapping his arms around Craig's middle and tugging him towards himself.

When they parted, he stared at his friend, bloodshot eyes, pupils dilated and the corners of his mouth raised in an amused smile. And just like that, he tipped his head back and took another drag, as if nothing had happened. Craig only stared at the indents his fingertips made in his friend's thick jacket, clinging to the proof of their previous actions as he reached a shaky hand out, cursing himself on his nerves, and Kenny passed the joint to him. The cold air clung to the heat in his cheeks until it passed completely, and as he inhaled he felt the anxiety slowly leave him. Medicine. He exhaled through his nose and gave a slow blink.

Kenny was still smiling when he caught Craig's gaze and he let himself smile back, fighting the urge to look away again, always avoidant and shy. His ears were ringing as he wondered if he would regret it the next day, if it was just the pot, the exhaustion, the culmination of the previous few days. One of Kenny's hands still clung to his side, he noticed, pulling him closer as the blond took the blunt from between his teeth and inspected it before taking a drag again. They sat like that until school ended, until after the final bell rang and everyone had left, and Craig felt his feet grow numb in the cold before Kenny suggested they go home.


End file.
